


call me by my name

by lavendori



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Impressions, Flirting, Gen, Humor, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Post Time Skip, osamu may or may not have gotten conned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendori/pseuds/lavendori
Summary: Unfortunately for Osamu, first impressions are easier to remember than names, especially in the case of a particular black cat.“Had to cover for your twin, huh?” the kitty cat laughed. “Lucky him.”Osamu, of course, is familiar with these tactics. Due to the badge of honor he’d received since birth on account of growing up with Atsumu, he can smell bullshit and attempts at provocation from a hundred kilometers away. And besides, he doesn’t really agree.“It’s not really luck,” he had replied. The Nekoma blocker merely smiled.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou & Miya Osamu, Kuroo Tetsurou/Miya Osamu, Miya Osamu/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 31
Kudos: 140





	call me by my name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akasuga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akasuga/gifts).



> I have been thinking about osakuro for a long time so I decided to finally put it into action. Here's to another rarepair of characters who never interacted in canon!
> 
> Special thanks to [akasuga](https://twitter.com/babysettersclub) for inspiring me to actually make this happen :P (and for the title help!)

Osamu has seen a lot of familiar faces today.

Since they’re in Sendai, here to watch a big monster game, this makes sense. However.

“Two smoked mackerel onigiris please.”

“Coming right up,” he says after accepting payment. He doesn’t register who the customer is until he’s bagged the food and handed it to him.

“Hey wait—” Osamu lifts his cap a bit so he can see him better. “You’re not from Sendai.”

“No, I am not,” the customer affirms with a cryptic smile.

Although the name has slipped his mind, Osamu would recognize those broad shoulders, tall frame, and messy bedhead anywhere. Instead of sporting the familiar red volleyball uniform, however, the Nekoma grad is dressed head to ankle in a sleek black suit that tells Osamu that his post-uni career has been going pretty well for the dude.

“Miya Osamu, right?”

“That’s me.”

“You don’t remember mine, do you?” the other man chuckles. “It’s written all over your face.”

_ No it’s not,  _ Osamu frowns. One of the many things he prides himself on, especially when Atsumu fails so spectacularly at it, is his poker face. How’s a damn kitty cat able to read him? If he had simply guessed it, that would’ve been fair, but  _ ‘written all over his face?’  _ Bullshit.

“Yeah, you got me,” Osamu admits. He’s big enough to admit things from time to time. “What’s your name again?”

“Really? Not even an inkling of a memory? After everything we’ve been through?” he asks, feigning hurt.

Osamu purses his lips. “We played each other  _ once  _ in one game.”

“And it was a  _ wildly _ exciting three set match.”

“I  _ do _ remember that.”

The kitty cat laughs. “Ah, well then. I’m sure it’ll come to you eventually. I’ll be back to leave a generous tip if you remember by the end of this game.”

With a wink, he grabs his bag of onigiri and turns to go. Before he fully leaves the line, he pauses and glances back at Osamu.

“You know, I’m surprised you didn’t join your twin in the big leagues,” he adds. “Even back then, your innate talent and natural abilities on the court stood out. Together, you two would’ve made it far. Thank you for the food.”

And with that, he slinks away through the crowd, leaving Osamu to serve the next customer while his mind wanders into the past.

* * *

Osamu only played the kitty cats once in his first year at Nationals but this particular tall, conniving kitty cat certainly left an impression.

They say one of the biggest pressures a setter can face from the opposing side of the court is an intolerably consistent middle blocker. Although it was their first match of the second day, by the middle of their first set, Osamu could see Tsumu’s confident facade starting to crack.

The kitty cat in question, Nekoma’s vice captain at the time, is a good taunter. It takes one to know one (— or at least, half the DNA of one to know one), and Osamu had been watching silently from afar the whole game.

Like a sly cat, the middle blocker prowled around them with curious eyes sizing up its cornered prey while Nekoma’s setter carefully pinpointed the best angle for attack.

The pressure was on. Tsumu started getting reckless. He began setting the ball faster, attempted to engage Nekoma’s setter in similar blocking taunts, and fumbled a serve. Eventually their coach called for a timeout, and Kita took the opportunity to give Osamu a silent look that clearly said,  _ Do Something. _

So Osamu did. At the next chance he could get, when Aran sent the ball to him, he turned it mid-spike into an emergency set for Tsumu, who reacted at top speed and sent the attack straight past the vice captain’s ear.

Tsumu cheers with delight, punching the air with his usual victory fist bump, largely unaware of everything else around him. Behind him, the Nekoma middle blocker was smirking on the other side of the net, but it wasn’t directed at Tsumu.

Osamu met his gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“Had to cover for your twin, huh?” the kitty cat laughed. “Lucky him.”

Osamu, of course, is familiar with these tactics. Due to the badge of honor he’d received since birth on account of growing up with Atsumu, he can smell bullshit and attempts at provocation from a hundred kilometers away. And besides, he doesn’t really agree.

“It’s not really luck,” he had replied. The Nekoma blocker merely smiled.

Is _ Tsumu lucky to have been born with him? _ he had wondered as they rotated into their next round. It certainly wasn’t coincidence or choice, but Tsumu probably wouldn't consider it luck. Because of Osamu, he has had to grow up sharing a room, being known only as part of a pair, and never getting his own birthday celebration all to himself. Osamu, on the other hand, has never given a shit about that. It’s the reality he was dealt and he never had qualms accepting it. He never enjoyed being the center of attention anyway.

In the end, they lost the match. But at least they’d made it to the second day. That was still something.

During their customary line up, the Nekoma blocker gripped his hand with a firm shake and a wicked grin. Osamu couldn’t explain why, but he sensed respect in the resolute way the guy shook his hand. It may have been a fleeting thought, but the feeling was mutual.

That was the last time Osamu interacted closely with him.

Until now.

After the kitty cat leaves, Osamu spends the next ten minutes reflecting on their first and only game. Concentrating hard, he tries to recall the exact image of the Nekoma blocker walking off the court, doing his utmost to envision the words on the back of his jersey. Did it start with a B? No, wait.. an H? Haru-something? Nah, that can’t be it.

What is it then?

Osamu tries to google the guy during his break. When the game picks up and the crowd dies down, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through several different pages on the Nekoma website, including alumni donors, major volleyball announcements from six years ago, and potential Instagram connections. He’s unable to find a comprehensive directory from the past but shifts through any past National pamphlets he can find as well. Unfortunately, they only seem to display listings from within the last five years.

In all honesty, Osamu isn’t sure why it matters so much to find out his name, only, now that it’s come to his attention, he knows it’s gonna bother him until he remembers. There’s something sinister yet tantalizing in the kitty cat’s lazy gaze, in the casual tilt of his head when he analyzes you, gold eyes sharpening with interest at every move you make.

Osamu shivers. It’s unnerving to be observed more closely than he observes others. He’s not used to this sort of intense attention. Tsumu is always the one people notice first. That’s what he’s there for: a bright mosquito light to attract unwanted pests and zap them dry before they reach Osamu.

He supposes the Nekoma grad isn’t just any ole stupid bug.

After break, he resumes his work at the stand, although most of the food has been sold out. During one of the timeouts, another familiar face shows up to Onigiri Miya again.

“Back for more?” Osamu asks as the Fukurodani setter steps up to the counter. Come to think of it, Osamu doesn’t remember his name either. They’re all jumbled up in a general cloud of  _ volleyball players from Tokyo _ .

“Yes,” the former setter says. “Do you have any salmon onigiris left?”

“Hmm,” Osamu leans back to look down at their stock. “Two salmon, three niku, and five ume’s left.”

“I’ll take the two salmons and one niku, please,” he smiles.

“Coming right up.”

Osamu bags the three rice balls and hands them over in exchange for a couple slips of yen.

The Fukurodani grad thanks him and turns to leave.

“Hey, wait—”

He turns back, an onigiri already in his hand with its wrap pulled back.

Leaning over the counter, Osamu asks, “What was your name again?”

“Akaashi,” he replies. “Akaashi Keiji.”

“Akaashi, right,” Osamu repeats, more to reiterate it for himself. “You’re familiar with a lot of Tokyo players, arentcha?”

Akaashi considers this for a moment, then frowns in thought. “That depends.”

“Nekoma?” Osamu prompts.

“Ah,” he nods. “Yes.”

Osamu grins. Jackpot.

“D’you know that one middle blocker who I believe was captain at some point, probably during our second year? He came by earlier but I can’t remember his name.”

It happens in a split second, but what looks like the five stages of exasperation — (surprise, analysis, wariness, understanding, and acceptance) — flashes across Akaashi’s face. By the next moment, he sighs and gives Osamu a sympathetic nod.

“Ah. I see,” is all he says. Osamu isn’t sure if Akaashi is saying it to him or to himself. He’s also not sure if he should be finding Akaashi’s reaction totally normal or extremely weird. “You say he was here earlier?”

“Yeah. Said he’d leave a big tip if I remembered his name by the end of the game.”

“Ah,” he replies, then goes silent. The crowd cheers in the background. Trumpets and drums kick up a fanfare. It’s probably Tsumu’s turn to serve.

“So…” Osamu begins when Akaashi doesn’t say anything else. “Are you familiar with him or not?”

“Unfortunately.”

Osamu waits, wondering if he’ll finish the sentence.  _ ‘Unfortunately _ ’ — as in, unfortunate that Akaashi knows the guy or unfortunate because he doesn’t?

_ Unfortunately _ , at this moment, Akaashi doesn’t elaborate further.

Osamu raises an eyebrow. “Should I take that as a no?”

“Sorry,” Akaashi says, holding his arms up. “I wash my hands clean of this.”

“Wha— How do you—? Hey — wait!” Osamu calls out as Akaashi turns to leave again. “Can you at least gimme a hint?”

But Akaashi merely waves a hand and heads back towards the stands.

Osamu lets out a long exhale. What was that even all about? What kind of person causes their friends to evade direct involvement like this? What is up with this cat?

Well. He supposes he can kiss that “generous tip” the Nekoma grad promised goodbye. Maybe he won’t even come back anyway. Maybe it was a total bluff and Osamu is straining his brain for nothing.

That damn kitty cat.

* * *

By the time the game is over, Osamu has gone through several Instagram and Facebook profiles and still, he’s come up with nothing. He can only assume the dude went through a deep cleaning of his social media before his current job.

Time to throw in the towel.

With a final head scratch, he pockets his phone and begins the process of tearing down his booth.

He’s loaded almost everything back into his truck outside and is about to pick up the Onigiri Miya sign when the clearing of someone’s throat behind him stops him in his tracks.

“Miya Osamu,” the person says.

Osamu straightens up and turns to the speaker, a look of disinterest on his face.

The kitty cat is back in his sleek black suit, walking up to him with his hands in his pockets.

“I’m disappointed. You’ve put away your tip jar already,” he notes with a smug smile, coming to a halt just outside the booth’s borders.

“Don’t need it,” Osamu replies, bending down to pick up his sign. “I couldn’t remember your name.”

“Giving up so easily?” the cat pouts.

Osamu gives him a blank stare. “I wouldn’t say ‘easily.’”

“Aww, did you try that hard for me? I’m flattered.”

Osamu shrugs. “Guess I’ll never know your name.”

He turns to leave. As intriguing as the Nekoma grad is, Osamu isn’t interested in dangling bait. He can make his own food anyway.

“Wait—”

Osamu glances back, eyebrow raised. The slick and confident tone he had been using is no longer present in his voice.

The cat sighs, runs a hand through his annoyingly attractive hair, and seems to deflate a little.

“Kuroo Tetsurou,” he concedes, his eyes now devoid of any deceit. “I hope you don’t forget it this time.”

“Kuroo Tetsurou,” Osamu repeats. He tries to picture the old Nekoma jersey now with this new information but it really doesn’t stir any old memories.

With a chuckle, he adds, “Yeah I definitely wouldn’t have been able to remember that.”

“A shame,” Kuroo says. “‘Cause you were really memorable.”

“I've always been better with faces.”

“That’s comforting.”

Osamu adjusts his hat. “So, no tip then?”

“No,” he says, taking a step closer. “I’ll do you one better. Dinner, in your region, next time I’m in town.”

“In Kansai?” Osamu asks skeptically.

Kuroo shoots him a finger gun. “Yep.”

Osamu side eyes him. “I don’t understand. I — er — ‘lost?’”

“Good point,” he smirks. His trademark kitty cat smirk to be exact. This does not bode well. “Thanks for offering to cook.”

“Whoa, that’s not what I—”

“If your full on meals are anything like your onigiri, I look forward to it.”

Osamu sighs. “You won’t accept no for an answer huh?”

“See? You know me pretty well already,” Kuroo laughs.

“I’m familiar with obnoxious, yes,” Osamu deadpans. “Stands out more than names do.”

Kuroo pulls out a card from his pocket and hands it to him. “Maybe this’ll help.”

Osamu looks down at the business card. He’s part of the JVA? Somehow, that explains a lot.

“This is supposed to help?” he asks.

“Just wanted to make sure when I give you a call, you’ll know who I am.”

“When you call…” Osamu frowns. “Did you want to exchange—”

“No need.” Kuroo whips out an Onigiri Miya card from his other pocket. “Grabbed one earlier.”

Osamu has to resist the urge again to roll his eyes. “Of course you did.”

“You seem unimpressed.”

“No shit.”

Kuroo laughs. “You’re a fun guy, Miya. It’s too bad we only played each other in high school once.”

_ Yeah. It  _ is _ too bad, _ Osamu thinks.

“Well, anyway. I’ll be in Kansai next week for work,” Kuroo winks. “Keep in touch.”

With a final smirk, he slinks away, leaving Osamu to question whether he’s just been swindled out of a free home cooked meal or into a date.

“Dude,” comes Tsumu’s voice from behind. In the next moment, Osamu feels the weight of his twin’s elbow on his shoulder. “Did you just get conned into making free food for that guy?”

“Nah, I’m fully aware of what I’m doing, thanks,” Osamu replies, pushing Tsumu’s arm away.

“C’mon. That guy totally has conman vibes,” Tsumu says, shaking his head. “I was watching him with Shouyou earlier.”

Atsumu? Calling Kuroo a conman? A rush of horror flashes through Osamu’s mind as the realization hits. “Oh god. You’re the same.”

“What?” Tsumu squawks. “Did you just insinuate I have conman vibes?”

“Pretty sure I did more than insinuate.”

Tsumu’s jaw drops. “How dare you.” Slapping a hand to his own chest, he declares, “I am not a conman.”

Osamu gives him a pointed look. “That’s exactly what a conman would say.”

“Whatever.”

Tsumu doesn't falter one bit. Case in point.

“The one difference is,” Osamu says as he pockets Kuroo’s card and lifts his wooden sign higher against his torso. “I think the kitty cat was actually being sincere.”

“You’re not serious,” Tsumu states. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

Osamu shrugs and turns to leave.

_ Free labor or a date? _ he asks himself as Tsumu follows him out of the stadium. Both would be too chaotic.

Right?

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter ([@lavendori](https://twitter.com/lavendori)) and/or [tumblr](https://lavendori.tumblr.com)


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